


Crushed

by highfunctioningsupersoldiersociopath



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, First Person Narrative, but only if you interpret it that way, implied depression, implied suicide, possibly gender neutral, so tony is 'mentioned' i guess, tony stark's movie nights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 13:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13101138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highfunctioningsupersoldiersociopath/pseuds/highfunctioningsupersoldiersociopath
Summary: "Why do they call it a crush? Because that's how you feel when they don't feel the same way in return."





	Crushed

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I'm back with a more angsty one this time.  
> Trigger Warning for implied depression and implied suicide, so read at your own risk. But, like I tried to say in the tags, it is open to interpretation.  
> I don't own Marvel or anything, etc.

I wouldn't see him often. It was mainly when passing in the corridors or catching each other's eye in the gym, each with our own intense training schedule. Or, when Tony had the gall to bring everyone together for a movie night, I would continue to steal glances in his direction, more so if I had already seen the film. Each time had the risk of being caught and the thrill, the adrenaline rush, that came with it felt like finally catching and riding the biggest wave. This happened to be unfortunately rare, considering everybody's busy schedules and, I, being a higher level agent that  _occasionally_ worked with the Avengers was _occasionally_ invited, if Stark was feeling generous. The way the screen lit up his face, highlighting the angles and curves, was something I would honestly marvel at forever; the way the corner of his eyes would crinkle at something amusing made my stomach turn somersaults, making me wish for it to never end. But it always did, and I'd be rushed back into reality by whoever I was sitting next to and would have to find some excuse to leave, despite how much I enjoyed their company and their banter. 

It was the times when I saw him, and we would awkwardly smile at each other and then continue with whatever we were doing that I looked forward to the most. I almost craved the high by then, the tsunami of dopamine that accompanied it was euphoric, and yet it was a kind of masochistic pleasure: the ache in my heart knowing he could never reciprocate these feelings made me want to dig a hole with my bare hands until they were raw and bleeding and bury myself alive.

It seems silly, we barely knew each other and yet I could feel a pull towards him. It was like having a string tied tightly around my abdomen, almost uncomfortably tight so that it would set the butterflies loose, frantic, making my heart pound in my throat, heat to rise to my cheeks, and the string to tighten even more, tugging me along on whatever journey it had planned.

The worst thing about it was that I enjoyed this feeling. It created an intoxication so unlike my normal functioning state that I felt like I was at the bottom of the ocean, suffocating and drowning without his presence. But they were always so fleeting, our meetings, that what was really happening was that I was being catapulted directly into the bright blue sky, the sun watching on in nervous anticipation, and at the crux of my flight, he would smile back, most of the time it would reach his eyes and elation would be coursing through my veins alongside the adrenaline of coming back down to Earth, speed increasing every second. This felt like it happened in a millisecond; a blink and you miss it kind of thing, like when a golfer tees the ball and it disappears into the distance within the flicker of an eye, too small to be seen without any aid.

We were never paired together for missions, our styles too different according to Steve, but then an annoying voice from my conscience insisted that he was only trying to keep us apart. I didn't act on it; my rational side was too powerful to let me do anything stupid that would get me removed from the team, but, perhaps that would have been kinder to me, in the end.

I saw him one day, coming out of a meeting room, trailing behind his pal Steve. I'd always admired Steve from afar, so when I first joined and got to meet Captain America in the flesh, I was over the moon. Even though we often worked closely together, the Captain and I, our relationship never went any further than cordial politeness. I honestly cannot fathom why, except to blame my appallingly poor people skills. I was about to move on down the top of the T-junction of the corridor, accepting that as the men were heading the other way there was little point in me lingering to smile at them because they wouldn't see me, when something caught my attention. It made my senses stand on alert like a bloodhound picking up on a scent: there was someone else exiting the room after James.

A female I didn't recognise. That in its self would have raised an alarm in any other agent, but upon further inspection, she had a visitor's pass clipped to the pocket of her dangerously tight skinny jeans, rips at the knees exhibiting an obviously fake tan - it was like she was related to an orange. But, the most problematic thing of all, her left hand was entwined with James' right one.

Of course he would have a significant other. Of course he would choose someone who was stereotypically beautiful. Of course I chose the man who was already taken. It made me sick; I couldn't linger in the hallway any longer, my stomach threatening to expel its contents while tears threatened to spill from my eyes. But, I had a meeting to attend to on an upcoming mission, and having a breakdown in the middle of the work day was not an option: I didn't want colleagues to see how damaged I'd become inside, my joyful exterior had to be consistent and a seemingly impossible armour to break, even though if one were to look close enough, they'd find there were innumerable weak spots. I had to suck it up, put it to the back of my mind and let it out later, alone. Perhaps not the best coping mechanism, I know, but sometimes the situation cannot be helped.

But really, that was all it took to crack my shell.

The mission was successful. I focused all my attention on this, anger towards myself, towards James and that  _woman_  channelled into knocking down the Hydra agents that stood in my way. The only reward I got for my efforts were several bruises that disappeared within a week.

Steve had come up to me after we were debriefed (he had been overseeing the op for some reason), complementing me on my work, asking jokingly where that had come from. I could only give a bashful smile and shrug, saying that I didn't know. Never would I let him in on the truth, but he told me to keep it up, hinting at a promotion, all I could stupidly do was laugh at the insinuation, unsure of how to reply.

This focus developed in the worst possible way; alone in my tiny shoe-box apartment was where I could truly be myself, and as I would step out of my armour, a weight would fall down upon my shoulders, forcing me to the ground, and just sit there staring into space, wondering at what my life had become and what had become the point of it all. The time would pass like that until my stomach would growl at me for not eating, so I'd force something down my throat. Not that it would make me feel sick, I just wasn't necessarily hungry, and my body was telling me otherwise, trying to survive.

Sometimes I would sit there, somewhere on the floor of my shoe-box, and think about the days where I wasn't like this, where I would enjoy the silence or quite happily watch television or catch up with friends on social media. I'd been radio quiet recently, and it seemed like none of them cared enough to see whether I was still alive.

It was a shame I didn't notice that I would end my flight from the catapult in the endless ocean, not a soul in sight to save me and bring me back to sanity, the only available direction being down, until my lifeless body would be dramatically pulled down like in a high budget movie, arms out wide, begging for a hand to come into view and bring me back, only for that not to happen. My hair, floating like a golden halo around my head, could be interpreted as my innocence, but as always, I know better and that only I am to blame for this tragedy. The light would fade quickly, the sun's rays not being able to penetrate such depths like the blue of his eyes would change from sparkling with joy to dark, unforgiving, and lifeless; the Soldier reappearing for a final encore, and nothing nor no one would be around to hear my body softly thudding against the sandy ocean floor having finally hit rock bottom.


End file.
